


Captive

by tiberiusirius



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Assassins & Hitmen, F/M, Future Fic, Horror, Mental Instability, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-27 01:47:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2674322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiberiusirius/pseuds/tiberiusirius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his search for Tyrion, Jamie encounters No One</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Two Elephants and a Tiger

**Author's Note:**

> Had 48 pages of this one lying around. Wanted to work on something that didn't make me want to stab myself in the eye. Haven't decided it I was successful in my endeavor. Whatever, here's something. Sorry that its probably not what you wanted from me.
> 
> Apologize in advance if its a little rough...its been awhile

Jamie had been roaming the Free cities for near eight years now. Three of that spent with the Golden Company, and the last of that as their Captain-General.

 

Eight years had passed since his father’s death. Eight years since the last person who had well truly loved him looked upon him with hatred during an assisted escape from the bowels of the Red Keep. One dreaded revelation from a time when they were both still the manipulated children of an avaricious father, and two brothers had been torn apart.

 

He could still feel the force of his little brother’s small fist as it struck him harder than he would’ve thought possible for a half-man. One regretted utterance of a confession long past due, followed by a just although heart wrenching reaction, was all it took for Jamie to abandon the rest of his Seven forsaken oaths; he’d lost count of how many of the accursed things he’d collected anyways.

 

He’d finally found sense enough to renounce the family that had done nothing but cause him misery and bring ruin down upon the whole of the Seven Kingdoms. Fuck if he would stay and watch as the legacy his father had largely held of more import than the wellbeing of his own children came to an ironic and devastating conclusion at the hands of his mad twin.

 

Fuck the Lions, fuck the Lannister’s of Casterly Rock, fuck the Game, and fuck all of Westeros for all the good it did him. He just wanted to forget the blight he’d help bring down upon the world with his blind conformity in assisting his cold father and manipulative sister in their reprehensible scheming.

 

Now the only thing he could give two golden shits about was making it right with the only one of the whole lot of them who had ever acted as his kin. He had to find Tyrion, the only person who had well and truly loved him as blood should. He had to make him forgive him his blind idiocy.

 

It wasn't very hard leaving Westeros behind, it certainly wasn't difficult leaving his bitch of a sister and finding passage across the Narrow Seas. It was, however, near impossible to find word of a golden haired Westerosi half-man and have people take him seriously while doing so. He’d spent five years in four different cities waiting and hoping for word when, in need of money, he'd finally been convinced to make his way as a sellsword.

 

He had become more than proficient with his left hand since his right had been lopped off by the damnable Bloody Mummers, and had even managed to pick up some influence in other fighting styles on his journeys. It wasn't a surprise that he had been eyed as a recruit. He did after all carry with him a Valyrian Steel sword along with enviable golden armor created from the forges of the infamous Street Of Steel. It goes unsaid that of all the possibilities, the Golden Company was where he fit best—he already had the golden mail for fucks sake!

 

Part of his decision to enlist lie in the fact that that he’d almost certainly hear more word of the world from within the ranks of a company of mercenaries whose line of work required them to be knowledgeable of politics if they wished to find contracts.  He wasn't wrong. What he didn’t count on was how fast he’d be promoted in the ranks and how much he’d take to it.

 

Here he wasn't hounded by oaths that would negate one another and consequently cause him to question his moral fiber or leave him branded in infamy for forsaking them. Here he owed no one allegiance but his men, and they were much easier to deal with compared to the grumbling, reluctant, and falsely honorable Lords of Westeros. Seven hells, in Essos and this line of work the name Kingslayer was even looked upon as favorable! People wanted to hire someone capable of bringing down an entire kingdom with its ruler, and that’s often what was asked of the Golden Company.

 

On this side of the Narrow Sea war wasn’t about idealism, bravery, and loyalty. It was realistic squabbling, blood and gore, and all for what he was raised to know best—Gold and Power—though he could give two fucks about power as long as the men got their gold. That was after all, the only way to assure their happiness and the safety of his own skin as their commander less the mutinous fucks stab him in the back one fateful day.

 

Well, gold _and_ whores were what mercenaries ran on he supposed. Cunt to sellswords was as good as gold; too bad it wasn't an easily exchangeable currency unless you possessed one. Promise of one certainly seemed to have a glorious effect in redoubling the efforts of men on the field.

 

Right now though he wasn't in a brothel fresh from battle, he was there celebrating the draft of a new contract for the company with his officers and to possibly hear word of Tyrion. There had been none since Pentos and Gods know the best place to look for his brother would always be a whorehouse.

 

The establishment he occupied currently was one the men would no doubt frequent for the duration of their campaign in Volantis, and it did promise to be a long one. Apparently the Triarchs had levied taxes on ships coming down through the Rohyne delta high enough that the cities Qohor and Norvos had combined their might and were marching south to war.

 

Until their armies got there and the city closed its gates, the men of the Golden Company were free to indulge in all the cunt their coin could pay for. Thus his officers had become fast friends with the Braavosi Madame of the city’s finest brothel, and he’d been lured into going with the promise of his captains buying him his pick of whores. He wasn’t as enthusiastic about it as Tyrion would’ve been, but the offer did provide the chance to find release and possibly hear news of the world, and he could save his own coin in the process.

 

Meandering in after a long line of eager soldiers and finding seats in the main tavern, his nose was assaulted by the staggering scent of incense which was clearly attempting to drown out the reeking undercurrent of sweat, semen, and other bodily ejaculates that no doubt covered every inch of the place. Jamie had never particularly been fond of such establishments. Even at the age of two and forty his looks were still enough for women to throw themselves at his feet. He couldn’t help it if his lips curled of their own accord as he observed his surroundings.

 

To the Madame’s credit, the building was nice and the furnishings were lavish. The sounds however and the lecherous desperation rampant in the room stemming from the feigned interest of conniving whores and their lusty customers, was enough to garner his disdain. He exhaled sardonically, resigning himself to his location as he looked over the nude women running about and being pulled into laps, hoping there was one appealing enough that could get him leaden sooner rather than later so he could return to his tents and begin pouring over maps.

 

His eyes skated past all those light of hair having lost fondness of such women due to bitter memory and landed on what he could only believe was a plump little Dothraki with fierce eyes, copper skin and strong looking thighs. He only tore his gaze away to put on his most charming smile for the Madame as she paraded some women in front of the lot of them, the women bearing tankards of fine Tyroshi pear brandy and settling into laps.

 

“It is an honor to welcome and welcome back the men of the Golden Company. All at the Nameless Lover are ripe for the picking. Welcome to the finest pleasure house in all of the city.” The Madame began in a lilting Braavosi accent eyeing those that had been there before and those that hadn’t. “I give you my greatest assurances, if here you can not find a woman matching of your hearts desire then you will find all of Volantis wanting…along with all of Essos, even Lys!” She told them boldly, looking to him after noticing his notorious golden hand and singling him out.

 

Jamie wanted to snort at the audacious proclamation but settle for a satirical grin instead. “I don’t believe my heart will be desiring anything tonight fine Madame, it will be my cock doing all the thinking.” He drawled smartly.  

 

The woman took his words in stride and stepped up behind one of her girls, ever the saleswoman. “If it is only your cock you’re aiming to please, wishing not for soft touches or sweet words, might I suggest Nyel for the likes of a spirited coupling.” She said sweeping the straw colored hair away from a slight girls neck and running a hand down her bare arm fondly and suggestively. The gesture wasn’t lost on the men, himself included though to a lesser degree. She wasn't to his liking though the Madame took no notice of the fact. “She is named after one of the three famous bells of her Norvoshi homeland, her keens are said to mimic the sound and lull you into a more intense release.”

 

Jamie saw many of the eyes of his fellow brothers in arms light up at the tall-tale, but he was intelligent enough not to think her words anything but fabrication aimed towards captivating the thick-witted. “I have no doubt one of my fine companions will be hypnotized by what I’m sure is a _lovely_ melody but it will not be me.” He told her sarcastically with a detached grin.

A flash of annoyance came across the woman’s face, but just as quickly was replaced by a practiced smile. “Does my Lord have specific tastes in mind?” She asked determinedly polite.

 

Jamie could feel his expression harden and his whole body tense at the murmured formality and he worked his jaw, nostrils flaring slightly. “I would prefer it if you would kindly refrain from calling me ‘Lord’.” He told her through gritted teeth taking care to make sure his voice didn’t sound as tense as his muscles felt at the moment. “I gave up my titles and what remained of my accursed honor when I left Westeros and that is where I would have it die.”

 

He was no Lord, nor was he a knight, and he didn’t want to be mistaken for one or find himself slave to the vows that at one point would’ve had him overlook people who couldn’t defend themselves, those he was sworn to protect as defender of the realm, in favor for a Mad King who would burn them all alive.

 

The woman blinked at him, startled at his gruff tone. “I did not wish to offend you my Lor—” She stopped herself and searched the ground looking for a way to suitably address him given his station.

 

He smirked mirthlessly and raised his tankard. “Call me Captain-General, call me Sellsword, call me Kingslayer, or mayhaps even an idiot-shit if you feel so inclined.” He took a swig and stretched out leisurely, letting his arms rest on the seatback of the upholstered bench behind him before his expression harden along with his tone. “Do _not,_ however, under _any_ circumstances call me Lannister, Lord, or Ser.” His knuckles were white around his tankard, and he knew just how bitter he sounded though he didn’t much care. “I would give my other hand before I was ever again tied to that misguided nonsense that passes for culture across the Narrow Sea.”

 

The proprietor considered him strangely before addressing him, although cautiously, “My apologies, I only wish to know what it is you prefer in your women so I can better afford you with a pleasurable suggestion.”

 

The corners of his lips twitched upward in a mockery of a smile as he inclined his head towards her slightly in apathetic acceptance of her apology. His men around him answered her question for him.

 

“He don’ like em’ light o’ hair.” He heard from down the table a ways.

 

Jamie grinned though it didn’t fully reach his eyes and lifted his tankard towards his fellow while keeping his eyes on the woman letting her know there was truth to the statement. “This is true.” He agreed with a smirk.

 

“A man prefers them strong, isn’t this so?” He recognized the melodic Lorathi accent of his lieutenant.

 

In his mind flashed the painful image of a tall, broad woman from Tarth, eyes like sapphires. He did his best not to flinch. “I certainly don’t like them soft.” He admitted begrudgingly.

 

Off to the side came another voice. “What about this one? She new, is she?” His man Florhin offered. Jamie looked up as he pulled the only modestly clothed girl in the whole of the room onto his lap. He briefly turned to Jamie, “She what you like?” He asked as he tried to get a peek down her linen shirt while palming one breast and examining the curve of her hip with the other.

 

Jamie watched as the girl kept her eyes downcast and shied shamefully from his touch, turning herself away as much as she could while obviously trying not to cause incident. His immediate appraisal of her waist length, shiny, wild mahogany curls, and what he could make out of the alabaster skin stretching lithely over elegant muscles from underneath her clothes, was certainly something he’d contemplate.

 

His considerations however were brought to a screeching halt as the proprietor let out a strangled and seemingly compulsory cry of “NO!” Jamie blinked, startled somewhat by the volume, watching in mild interest as the woman rushed over looking, of all things, scared. “No, she’s not one of my girls. She’s not for sale.” She explained looking flustered and collecting the girl out of Florhin’s arms, beseeching her in Braavosi to what he could only assume was leave the room.

 

He’d never witnessed a pleasurehouse proprietor looking out for a woman’s chastity over their own coin purse. He remembered how Tyrion once joked that you could ask the owner of the brothel to bed his best horse, his cook, his wife, and even himself and he would most assuredly allow it if only for the right price. Of course then he’d added that should Jamie doubt his words he need only ask to bed Littlefinger for the price of Lordship of the Rock to find the truth in the statement. Here and now though Tyrion’s theory seemed to fail, and his cunning little brother wasn’t often wrong. Jamie watched the exchange, his scrutinizing gaze following the girl as she did as was told.

 

Her posture certainly spoke of someone who had just been chastised and appeared frightened and humiliated. But then he noticed the clenched fists at her sides and he narrowed his eyes glimpsing the way her hips seemed to sway with a bit too much of a dangerous confidence now and again although she shuffled meekly more often than not. His brows furrowed together as he looked back to the Madame questioningly.

 

“She’s my scribe.” The woman offered with a forced smile seeming a bit out of sorts as she did. “A new purchase that I wouldn’t have ruined less she become distracted from her duties.”

 

Every one of the sellswords but Jamie appeared to take that as excuse enough and they began suggesting women to him again while palming handfuls of soft skin as they did and getting further into their cups all the while.

 

His thoughts on the other hand continued to linger on the young girl. A brothel in need of a scribe? Really? Did the Madame expect him to believe she kept records of each man, at what price, and for how long it took her girls to drain their cocks? It certainly didn’t appear anyone was doing any such thing now that he was taking note of it himself.

 

He did eventually force the suspicious tingling to the back of his mind and settle on the Dothraki woman he had been admiring earlier. However, when he awoke in camp the next morning to the news that Florhin had passed in his sleep and was found in his tent, his first thought was of the unwilling young scribe girl his friend had pulled into his lap the night before.

 

***

 

The one they called Talea in Lys hadn’t been very pleased to discover that the Masters had no intention of letting her return to Braavos after discreetly distributing the Gift to a trader of bed-slaves on behalf of someone willing pay the hefty sum required to hire the Faceless. Talea, who wore a face of silvery blond hair and clear blue eyes, wasn’t very satisfied in the knowledge that she would have to change appearances and once again move on to another city to practice her skills on behalf of the Guild. Now she was to head to Volantis where three more awaited reception of her Gift before she could journey back North. She longed for Braavos, for home, but she wouldn’t neglect the Guild who had taken her in and given her a new life as no one and everyone at once.

 

It had been three years since she’d graced the hundred islands and canals of Braavos or glanced upon the House of Black and White, and she had ached to do so ever since watching the Titan disappear on the horizon while taking passage to Pentos for her first assignment abroad after near six years as an acolyte and apprentice. It was strange to her that she could miss the land that had welcomed her as their own more so than that of Westeros, more so than that of the home she identified as belonging to the girl Arya Stark.

 

Even so in the back of her mind, in some place hidden from the Kindly man and even from herself, she could glimpse falling snow and smell the glorious cold of winter. It was a dangerous compartmentalization that had almost cost her her life on a journey to Ibben. Her walls had come crumbling down for just a moment and her guard dropped just enough that she found herself basking in the familiarity of snow like an inexperienced apprentice rather than a superiorly trained weapon of the House of Black and White. As soon as the happiness had faded and the grief ebbed its way back in she had been able to slam the walls back into place. Her outward veneer however, had already slipped back into that of a young girl with sad grey eyes. As a result she had had to change faces and start her task anew.

 

More and more of late she felt the crashing of winds threatening to break down the barriers she had reconstructed, threatening to break free the girl that long ago she had worked so hard to force to nothingness. She felt that maybe by returning to the Guild after three years she could rebuild those walls and smother the girl. That she could save herself the pain of having all the memories flood back carelessly and fall victim to the emotions they invoked as they could be brought to the surface and work to undermine her training.

 

Unfortunately, returning to Braavos wasn’t in the cards. There was however, one saving grace in being sent on to Volantis. The Golden Company was stationed just outside the city walls and perhaps Gifting the girl known as Arya Stark with the life of the Westerosi Captain-General would be enough to convince her and her demons to remain hidden in the back of her mind until she could return to Braavos and force her out forever.

 

The she-wolf always seemed to be content to fade away with the spilling of blood, and even if the savagery with which she was compelled to do so wasn’t congruent with the subtle ways the Faceless showcased their talent, she indulged the girl if only to keep her at bay. She was afraid of her. No One was only supposed to be delivering three the gift, but to keep Arya Stark away she fully intended on making it four.

 

Of course she must be careful that one objective didn’t hinder the other. And mayhaps it was her being a bit reckless and aiming to subdue the suppressed girl, but using the face of Arya Stark seemed the only proper way to go through with her task, though she would go by the name Talisa.

 

Talisa spent her days in the market places listening and following like a ghost the servants she observed coming from the manses of the Old-blood for word of the two Elephants of the Triarch. At night she would return to the brothel of the Braavosi Madame whom she had found board with through use of her Iron coin. It was there amongst the whores and their suitors that she listened for word about the third individual of the ruling body of Volantis, a member of the Tiger party, while simultaneously looking out for word of her fourth target, the Lannister.

 

 The mercenaries were naturally forthcoming while seeking out company and cunt. With her own ears, and those Talisa the scribe had befriended, she was able to gather much and more about both the Tiger and the Captain-General, though news of the Kingslayer was rather not what she expected.

 

The little bits and pieces of information about Jamie Lannister that escaped the crumbling prison in her mind containing Arya Stark, matched up not at all with the words of his Golden brothers in arm.

 

It was even more particularly disturbing to see him in person and witness the way he spoke of Westeros. He seemed quite bitter, though about what she couldn’t seem to puzzle out. He was absurdly offended at being referred to as Lord or Ser and had gone on about honor an awful lot for a Kingslayer. His claim not to prefer the golden hair characteristic of his family given his known incestuous tendencies was more than surprising as well.

 

It had also been infuriating to find that he had been considering her as a prospect to bed of all things, though the man who had brought her into the conversation on that account had paid dearly with his life. She had been tempted to rip his throat out right there at the table, as she was inclined to do so as her moniker whenever a task allowed. Still she’d kept her composure, barely holding onto her act as the Madame’s meek scribe and waiting for the Braavosi woman to take action less she find it necessary to scare her custom away.

 

After only two days in the establishment she was becoming wholly fed up with its patrons and their inclination to pull her onto their laps and grope her while laughingly telling her she was wearing entirely too much clothing and might they help her out of it. Mayhaps it was because she had spent nearly four months prior to her stay at the Nameless Lover in a pleasurehouse in Lys, but her normally stoic countenance was failing her and she was fast feeling her frustration mount along with Arya Stark’s nigh insatiable bloodlust.

                                                                                                       

She was almost thankful that Madame Meralyn was absent for the evening and that the whore Bethany was to watch over the establishment in her stead because she might now find a way to release her vexations.

 

So far throughout the evening no one had accosted Talisa the scribe and she was left alone to glide from table to table filling and refilling tankards, using her abilities to remain inconspicuous and only allowing patron’s eyes to ghost over her as she eavesdropped on their conversation. Nothing much really came of it until she picked up one particularly useful piece of information pertaining to the Tiger. Apparently he planned to disembark from the city with a contingency of Tiger cloaks, the city guards, and head to Yunkai to speak with the Dragon Queen who had been holed up in Slaver’s Bay amassing an army since the city fell four years past. Apparently the Taragryen bitch was loitering and waiting for winter to ravage Westeros and expire before she made her claim.

 

She was walking away from the table already planning the means by which she would find out more information to assist in inserting herself near the Tiger, Malaquo Maegyr, for his journey when she saw Bethany scurry towards the door to greet a large party of regulars from The Golden Company.

 

Talisa headed towards the counter behind which they kept the casks of various drink and made a task out of refilling her pitcher while taking note of those who were entering. She was pleased yet suspicious as to why Jamie Lannister was amongst them two nights in a row when it was common knowledge he didn’t make a habit out of frequenting such establishments.

 

After greetings were concluded she saw Betheny scan the room, passing over her twice before finally spotting her and hurriedly making her way to her side with terse instructions to provide the men with drink and keep their cups filled. She nodded to the whore and obeyed, keeping her head down and playing the part of meek Talisa, taking extra care to act wary given the last experience the scribe had with the same group.

 

She was happy to go unnoticed as she worked her way around the table listening to their gruff manner of speak, but it wasn't long until she felt eyes on her person.

 

She carefully glanced in her periphery to find gold-green eyes considering her in what she was disturbed to see was a solemn manner. She blinked suddenly as the foreign image of a much younger and frightened girl flashed through her head, a girl who was staring apprehensively into a pair of eerily similar eyes while occupying a room littered with maps and letters; somewhere deep in her mind whispering to her of Harrenhall.

 

She was only brought back to reality by Betheny who immediately and violently began berating her as she snatched the pitcher out of her hand. It took her a moment to come upon the realization that Talisa had overfilled one of the soldier’s tankards and had sloshed some of the good Volantene red wine into his lap. She was just registering the indignant curses of the man when she felt the wind around her change suddenly and had to school her instincts into telling her _not_ to duck away from the backhand that the whore was aiming at her face.

                                                                                                                                   

The blow landed squarely on her left cheek and was nothing if not pathetic in its force. She had to work hard to drum up an expression of hurt and humiliation appropriate for Talisa the scribe and school her own lips to prevent from smirking.

 

Her hand strayed to her face, perhaps a bit too slowly, to grasp at the pitiful mark that was no doubt present on Talisas pale skin as she feigned hurt. She just managed to force her eyes to water by squeezing them shut painfully. Talisa didn’t look up to the eyes of the man she had soiled as she gave an abashed curtsy and a meek wavering apology.

 

“My apologies ser, I lost myself. I meant no insult, truly.” She squealed trying for earnestness. What was most distressing was she wasn't lying, she _had_ lost herself. Damn the wolf-girl and her obsessions!

 

The man didn’t even get to say a word before Betheny was offering her own. “Don’t doubt for a second that Madame Meralyn will hear of this.” She turned to the man, “Your needs will be seen to free of coin this night, you may have your pick of girls of course.”

 

The man seemed to brighten at the thought, but then a sly smile came over his face as he glanced between her and Jamie. “Any girl you say?” When Betheny nodded smiling penitently he grinned and pointed to Jamie. “I’ll pay for my own whore and gift the Kingslayer with the little scribe that he was denied his last visit.” He said entirely too pleased with himself.

 

Talisa’s eyes widened and before she could stop herself the scribe was forgotten and the assassin lay bare in her gaze as she slowly raised her eyes to Betheny. The woman was about to open her mouth and agree to her own death along with the deal, but before the words could exit her mouth she was drawn to a foreign grey gaze possessing such a depthless rage, such a faceless anger and a danger so profound that her tanned Ghiscari complexion drained completely of color and she sputtered before changing her tune. “I—I’m sorry that just won’t be possible.” She stammered while glancing back and forth, landing inevitably on Talisa. She was astounded to find the scribe having returned, eyes facing towards the ground meekly once more. Betheny rightfully remained wary as she tried to find the means to explain. “Anyone else. The Madame would have my head for ruining the girl.”

 

The man appeared displeased and swiveled his head about the room clearly trying to find the most expensive looking woman he could. Talisa took it as her chance to make an escape and deftly grasped the pitcher and headed away from the table to circle about the room, once again filling cups. Although this time being careful to avoid a certain area and not so much as lifting her gaze in their direction less she find the eyes that usher memories unbidden from her mind.

 

She effortlessly dodged reaching hands and ignored the suggestive words directed at her as she continued on with her menial task. Nevertheless, her concentration felt taxed once she recognized the familiar burning sensation of eyes on her back. She had to bite back a younger girls unbidden anger less it get the better of her, and cursed when it distracted No One enough that an exceptionally fast pair of hands managed to pull her into his lap.

 

She was hard pressed to act the meek serving girl but managed it well enough, squirming around relatively weakly in protest while still attempting to get away, her eyes facing the ground. She stiffened however, eyes flashing, after feeling a cock hardening underneath her and only managed to hold herself back from ripping the offenders throat out by shoving her elbow forcefully into his stomach powerfully enough that his grip let up and she could get away easily.

 

That wasn't the end of it though. She had managed to embarrass the man and he wasn't inclined to let it go considering he was now the subject of his companions laughter. She held herself back from smirking and kept her head down, working hard to look fearful in her outwardly mortified escape out the back as she lured him into following. Follow he did.

 

She headed down the alley behind the brothel at a slow pace, Talisa forgotten as No One emerged. The challenging call of the man behind her, her prey, sending a sinister thrill her up her spine and turning her gait serenely insidious. She heard the footsteps trailing behind her picking up pace just as she slipped around the corner. She continued to lead him on a chase until she deemed it far enough away from the brothel to be safe and steered herself into a small alleyway between buildings with no exit.

 

When her stalker saw he had her cornered he slowed up and smiled banefully, though his expression was nowhere near a match for the hell the she directed at him with her own shadowed gaze. The drunkard was too restless to observe it or play with her more than necessary, so when he was three strides away he lunged at her foolishly.

 

She easily sidestepped him, withdrawing the small but unbearably sharp knife from up her sleeve and slicing vertically up his throat in one deft flick of the wrist as he charged. With her back turned and choosing not to watch but rather listen, she could hear the familiar sound of her surprised victim choking on his own blood as he tried to grasp when and how he’d become the prey.

 

After a moment she wheeled around coming up behind him. Reaching over his should with her right hand she flung his own away from the bloodied laceration so she could reach into the warmth of the slit she’d carved out and take hold of his esophagus with her deceivingly strong grip and tear it merciless from his body as she had done to so many before him.

 

She became drunk off the rush and the knowledge of her own power, her breathing reminiscent of glorious winter gales and in harmony with the sound of every drop of his blood dripping marvelously onto the pavement, his throat still throbbing and twitching in hand. She swore if she listened hard enough she could hear the sound of a wolf howling somewhere way off in the distance, just as she could every time she served someone with the Gift in this manner. The sound of the man dropping weightlessly to the ground was intoxicating and she stepped back to watch him collapse as a heat coiled up through her core and her eyes drank in the sight readily.

 

When the crimson seeping out from her victim began to slow its captivating ebb across the pavement, the euphoria began to fade and she wiped the blood from her dagger onto the ruined sleeve of her shirt before withdrawing an envelop from a concealed pocket and sprinkling its contents across the corpse while being careful not to touch it. Once the envelope was emptied she brought two pieces of flint together creating a spark that set her victim a’ smoldering.

 

She didn’t stay to watch him burn. It was pointless. The powder would ensure he was nothing but ash within the hour and wouldn’t flame or draw attention. Instead she turned to the wall and propelled herself up easily with the muscles of her legs, using the small mortar lines in the ancient stone of the building as holds for her small experienced fingers while effortlessly managing to ensure her skirts didn’t get in the way of her feet as she scale the wall like the agilest of spiders.

 

Soon enough she was making her way back to the brothel over rooftops and then lowering herself through the window into Madame Meralyn’s personal chambers, the ones she had vacated and given over to the Faceless upon utterance of the axiom _‘Valar Dohaeris’._ The only appropriate response when confronted by someone from her guild. Every man _must_ serve if they’d rather not perish when presented with the truth of ‘ _Valar Morghulis’_ —every man must die.

 

She peeled off her shirt quickly and washed her blood soaked hands in the basin next to the bed before pulling on a fresh tunic and exiting again through the window, dropping back into the alley she departed from beforehand. She strode back into the brothel, No One once again replace by Talisa the meek scribe.

 

The act didn’t seem like anything but second nature now, the way it should’ve been given her training. There was no gritting of the teeth, or flashing of eyes, it was all hidden behind a mask that the blood helped remain in place. The she-wolf was asleep once more, satiated by the feel of the throat of her prey within her fang like grasp.

 

When Talisa was called over to the table of sellswords she didn’t hesitate more than giving them a wary look that was perfectly justifiable for a girl who had spilled wine into one of their laps and been physically reprimanded. There were only three of them there now, two with women in their laps and then the Kingslayer alone and staring her down, eyeing her more intensely than ever while his fellows were busy playing slap and tickle with whores draped over their persons. She tried to fill their cups and be gone but it seemed he was determined to have words.

 

“On behalf of the my brothers in arms I think we owe you an apology.” The golden haired malapert began mockingly, sipping from his newly refilled tankard and considering her shrewdly over the rim.     

 

She remained meek, maintaining her practiced demeanor while keeping Arya Stark from snarling at the man. “I’m not sure what you mean m’Lord.”

 

He grimaced at the formality and she smiled wickedly on the inside knowing he found it irksome.

 

He gave her a tight-lipped detached smile, not quite able to hide the threatening gleam in his eyes from one so observant as her. “I mean for my man Florhin. I’m sure you can recall the man from our party who dandled you on his knee.” he narrowed his eyes and considered her judiciously though he remained flippiant, “the one who felt the curve of your backside and ran his greedy little fingers over whatever meager breasts you have hidden under that tunic.” His lack of attempt to phrase it gently was blatant and intentional, and the look he gave her body full of calculated condescension and disdain aiming to make her squirm in discomfort. “You remember him don’t you?” He goaded, taking a casual sip from his drink though never letting his gaze stray from hers.

 

Talisa shuffled her feet warily and let her lips droop into a displeased little frown. “I do. And s‘alright now. What’s done is done.” She said begrudgingly, while in her head she wanted nothing more than to pounce across the table and prick him with the same poisoned needle she’d stuck in his friend leaving him dead in his tent.

 

She tried to turn around and end the conversation but he stopped her with his words.

 

“Well isn’t that’s very kind forgiving of you!” He smirked wickedly.

 

She nodded, “I must get back to work now m’Lord. Drinks won’t be refilling themselves.” She tried.

 

“Quite.” He grinned malevolently, still flinching at the title she addressed him with. He waited until she had turned around to speak again. “Actually, I have need of some more wine myself.” He forced her to turn back around. His head was tilted to the side as he met her gaze.

 

She furrowed her brows, as if she were confused as to what game he was playing at. Still, Talisa dutifully stepped forward to fill his goblet. He took a curiously long look at her garb as she did so and when she tried to step away he grabbed her by the wrist.

 

“I have an unusually large thirst this evening. Mayhaps you should just linger to see that my cup stays full.” He told her all humor gone from his eyes, nothing but cunning remaining.

 

The way he said it was more command than request and she allowed Talisa’s nose to flare and a slightly worrisome glint to hover in her eyes as she searched his face acting frightened, as if she were looking for a way out. “Betheny will—“

 

“Betheny will do nothing now sit.” He ordered taking the pitcher and setting it on the table.

 

She allowed Talisa to quickly take a seat and fix her gaze on the table, as would a girl in her position faced with a powerful man.

 

Jamie leaned back in his seat as if completely at ease, his tone insouciant. “Is it not strange that Florhin suddenly passed on the night he offered you insult?”

 

Talisa the scribe blinked and stammered. “No—no m’Lord. I mean, I don’t know. Mayhaps?” She shrugged letting her cheeks color but fidgeting intentionally to show surprise and distress.

 

He leaned forward onto his elbows, his voice gone deadly. “Is it not strange for the proprietor of a brothel to give up her own personal rooms to a young scribe and go ghost white at the thought of a man bedding that same girl?” His tone let her know how odd he thought it and he didn’t stop “A girl who is supposedly under her employ and working in a pleasurehouse?” He asked levelly before leaning back suddenly once more. “I myself have never met a Madame who’d shy away from letting someone fuck their daughter given enough coin, and you most certainly aren’t even her relative, let alone Braavosi though you do seem to have perfected the accent.”

 

Talisa may still have been frowning confusedly, remaining silent at his line of questioning, but No One was right there on the edge, wary and ready.

 

Silence dominated for a moment as he looked her dead in the eye. “I knew a girl once. She looked just like you though she couldn’t possibly have made it all the way to Volantis considering she’s been dead near twenty years now.” He fussed with his tankard deliberately before meeting her eye again, scrutinizing her carefully. “Is the name Lyanna Stark of any significance to you?” He asked eyes narrowed but voice light, “Well just the name Stark really. House Stark, Wardens of the North? The Lords of Winterfell?” He feigned true curiosity well. “You do have their look.”

 

She shook her head easily enough though on the inside she was coiled tighter than a spring and restless, feeling a stirring behind the walls she so diligently manned so that they remained erect. “Can’t say it means much of anything to me, no.” Talisa answered.

 

“Ah well, that’s probably for the best.” He took a swig of his drink. “The whole family is dead now and the House fallen.” He explained casually. “Lord Ned got his head lopped off by the mad bastard son of myself and my sister, King Joffery. I’m sure you’ve heard the tale.” His eyes were daggers as he gnawed his lips with his teeth agitatedly. “Some say Ned’s wife and eldest son met a worst fate though. The Frey’s slit their throats at a wedding of all places and decided to defile their corpses as well.” He words were sprightly and careless, as if he were discussing the weather.

 

Talisa remained calm in front of him, expressing appropriate melancholy at the tale, though on the inside No One was battling the threat of certain barriers crumbling as winter ravaged them in their fury.

 

The Kingslayer continued. “Still, _I_ think the young sons got it the worst,” He supposed, still nonchalant, “burned alive by a boy they treated as kin. Fire is such an excruciating way to go don’t you think?” He asked not waiting for an answer. “One of the daughters got away for a little while I believe, though she jumped from the Moon Door of the Eyrie after being raped by Peytr Baelish countless times. Can’t say I blame her really, the man was a sycophant at the best of times. No ones quite sure what happened to the youngest daughter though there is a consensus that Arya Stark is also dead. Wouldn’t you want to die if all your family met such gruesome ends?” He paused eyeing her meaningfully and waiting for a reaction. He didn’t receive the one he expected or wanted.

 

“You would probably know better than I m’Lord.” Talisa shrugged timidly. “Such a sad tale and so similar to your own,” she paused and picked at the wood of the table. “Yet you don’t seem to wish for death do you?” She glance up, pleased to see his eyes turn dark though careful to remain outwardly impassive. “Your father was slain by your own brother was he not? I believe the bastard King was poisoned at _his_ wedding as well, and your lover and sister, didn’t she meet a similar fate after months of imprisonment by the faith?”

 

Jamie smiled mirthlessly, eyes devoid of anything but loathing. “All deserving fates, I assure you.” He told her too jovially while his expression turned into a grimace and he took a swig of his drink.

 

While his sentiments surprised her it wasn't adequate enough for her to feel merciful, not after what he’d just threatened to break lose within her with his own cruel words. “But it wasn't so for your daughter the princess or your other bastard son was it?” Talisa offered up as if naïve, seeming innocently curious about his suffering. In her mind she was elated to finally see the torture he bestowed upon the girl long dead and trapped in her mind returned in kind. “Myrcella bled out in the dessert after a slice disfigured her face and your son Tommen, he was captured by Stannis and his Red Priestess was he not? You yourself said fire was an excruciating death.”

 

The Kingslayer’s eyes flashed and she remained where she was though his movements were predictable. He had ahold of one of Talisa’s wrists in an instant, dragging her forwards so she was forced to stretch across the table between them, his eyes centimeters from her own. Talisa cowered and ducked as he hovered over her threateningly, attracting the attention of the whole room though no one acted to stop the scene.

 

“The little scribe knows Westerosi history quite well.” He sneered, his lips curled.

 

He yanked on her arm not quite painfully but Talisa cried out nonetheless. “Please m’Lord I thought we were just comparing Seven Kingdoms tragedies. Yours too is a sad tale.”

 

He laughed sardonically, “Oh indeed.” He seethed leaning closer and inspecting her face.

 

She was careful to meet his eyes looking sufficiently frightened and ignorant to how her own words could’ve affected him as she leaned away warily.  

 

“You don’t fool me.” He spat at her scowling, rage still present in his eyes and not letting up on his grip. “You’re not what you say you are.”

 

Grey eyes turned to the table and the words spoken from her mouth seemed so foreign. She wasn't sure if it was Talisa who answered or No One, or even _someone,_ which was frightening in and of itself. The furrow in her forehead developed without her knowledge.

 

“Not many people are what they say they are Kingslayer”, She whispered into the ether much more morosely than she ever would’ve thought her normally emotionless voice capable.

 

Suddenly her wrist was free of his grasp and Talisa stumbled away from him rubbing her bruised skin and looking back thoroughly terrified as he stared at her cagily, seeming caught of guard and questioning himself. He looked conflicted and stunned by her last statement.

 

The scribe quickly scampered up to her room and barred the door while No One manned the walls of Arya Starks prison less the horn of winter sound and the walls crumble to release her.

 

The North remembers, so how could No One ever hope to forget the North.


	2. Two Elephants, a Tiger and a Lannister

Jamie hadn’t slept in days. Every time he took to bed, sad and frightened grey eyes haunted him. He had been so sure he’d found the lost daughter of Ned Stark, but he couldn’t reconcile the soft terror in her gaze with that of the hard steel grey of the Starks.

 

He wasn't likely to ever forget the look in Eddard Stark’s eyes as he strode into the throne room of the Red Keep in all his fabled honor, his eyes like a headsmen’s blade as he took in the lifeblood of the Mad King on his Lannister sword, so red against the white armor of the Kingsguard.

 

The petrified gray of the little scribe’s eyes as he held her captive by the wrist from across the table was nothing even comparable to the steely adjudication of the Lord of Winterfell. How could have been such a fool to think her a Stark?

 

She had absolutely no reaction to the story of the Direwolves, and the Seven know he had been trying to elicit one given the way he told the horrific tale so frivolously. There had only been a slight softening around her eyes, as was expected of anyone who heard the story of the demise of House Stark. Definitely not the reaction expected of the little spitfire Arya Stark had it truly been her.

 

Then again he had been certain that her impassiveness was all an act, and a good one, when she began to tell the tale of his own miserable family as a comparison. Once she started he was sure she was trying to return his own callousness in kind, and with the regaling of the ends met by Myrcella and poor Tommen she certainly had. Though, could he have been mistaken in his assumption of that being her intent? The intent to elicit a violent reaction? She looked so startled when it worked him into fury, so thoroughly terrified and regretful. And then her words…

 

They had been running through his mind every hour, every minute really.

 

_“Not many people are what they say they are Kingslayer.”_

It was the first time she had called him anything but m’Lord. Kingslayer she said. His Gods forsaken title…and then coupled with those words…it seemed too much of a coincidence not to have meaning.

 

He remembered stumbling away from her, letting his grip go slack as soon as he had heard her despondent tone and the sorrow filled words. Her tone, her voice…it was as if she _knew_ a Kingslayer he might be, but not a man without honor, not a man as despicable as the title implied. He wasn't what he said he was, what everyone said he was, not entirely.

 

Her words were an admission to the familiar knowledge of what it meant to struggle with accepting an identity. An identity that you worked so hard to acknowledge but couldn’t ever really come to terms with, one that didn’t seem entirely just or even reasonable and that the world cruelly pushed upon you giving you no other option. The Kingslayer wasn’t something he wanted to be, it was something he had to be for the benefit of millions, though for the devastation of himself. What had the world pushed upon her?

 

How could a girl whisper such profound and commiserating words while facing real threat? Had she truly even been afraid of him? She had cried out and then scampered away when given the chance, but those words! They didn’t fit in anywhere with the little scribe, or what little he could remember of the fierce wildling Arya Stark.

 

She had as good as admitted that she wasn't who she said she was, but then who did that make her and what had the world forced upon her? He would say he was intrigued, but that just wasn't the right word. He was apprehensive and suspicious and curious and that didn’t even begin to cover all his feelings about the strange the girl.

 

He never went back to The Nameless Lover for fear of coming face to face with his own uncertainty, for he was generally confident to a fault, but that still didn’t stop him from looking out for her around every corner and in the streets. He never expected to actually find her in a city so large, but when he did he was compelled to watch.

 

Where she had found the money to purchase the two pieces of Dragonfruit she was handling was beyond him considering how flagrantly expensive the bloody things were. He couldn’t help but think that mayhaps she had stolen them, but as she collided with a slave, as marked by the small tattoo on the girl’s cheek, he dismissed the thought. She wasn't as light on her feet as was necessary to live the life of a thief and still be in possession of all her appendages.

 

The belongings that both the girls held tumbled to the ground and he was surprised to see the scribe help the other woman collect her purchases before picking up what she herself had dropped. The look she gave the young woman as the she scurried off across the Long Bridge back towards whatever manse she served was peculiar to say the least, but just as it appeared, it quickly vanished in favor of an emotionless front with dead all seeing eyes.

 

Jamie didn’t have time to contemplate the change before he found himself cautiously tailing after her as she dusted off her fruit and hurried down through the market. He was surprised at how difficult it was to keep pace with her. She easily slipped her way through the crowds, most people seemed not to even notice her presence as she moved around them. It was all in sharp contrast to the collision she just had and he found himself frowning once again thinking she was not at all what she seemed.

 

She surprised him once again when her eyes locked on a handsome young Tigercloak leaning disinterestedly against a wall and found she was suddenly making her way towards him. Once free of the mass of people she called to him and eagerly skipped into the man’s now outstretched arms. Although Jamie couldn’t see her expression, glimpsing the smile that lit up the Tigercloak’s face was enough to know that she was returning his excited greeting in kind, especially when she leaned up and kissed him on the cheek dangerously close to the corner of his mouth. For his part the man looked shocked and a bit dazed though entirely pleased.

 

Jamie smirked slightly even though a wildly outrageous feeling of rebuke swelled within him at the thought that the little scribe would so obviously be willing to climb into this man’s bed while she detested the thought of having to bed him or his men as an employee of Madame Meralyn’s pleasurehouse. He snorted at the thought of the Braavosi proprietor’s claim not to wish to see her ruined when she was so obviously determined to spoil herself with this fellow.

 

The reason for the Dragonfruit suddenly became apparent as she offered the dazed man one of the pricey things. The guard brushed her cheek tenderly at the gift before taking out his belt knife and cutting his up into slices and then doing the same for her enjoyment as well. He couldn’t help but think that a meager caress was not at all worth the ridiculous cost of the sweet delicacy, but then again he’d been a sap in love once and he’d done much more senseless things than buy expensive items looking to garner endearment. He’d done things for love that cost him, as well as innocent others, much more than just a month’s worth of gold.           

 

It was evident that the man was clearly taken with her, and when he glimpsed a view of the smile she reserved for him he wasn’t at all deluded as to why. She wasn’t what one would call plain, but neither was she an obvious beauty, at least not until she smiled; then she was breathtaking. He had outright told her that she looked like Lyanna Stark, and she did bear resemblance to the former head turner of the North, but looking at her now it was difficult to understand how he hadn’t notice how far and beyond she actually surpassed the loveliness of the long deceased woman who had been the death of an entire dynasty. This girl was striking, magnificent even. The poor fellow didn’t stand a chance.

 

He was far enough away that he couldn’t hear what was being said but he was still able to decipher what they were discussing through their body language and what he could read of their lips.

 

The young man had evidently been shirking his duty as a city guard and the little scribe was trying to convince him he needed to get back to his post less he get in trouble. She was nudging him half heartedly, looking for all the world like she feared for his safety because of their unauthorized rendezvous while he just laughed, a besotted gleam in his eye as he grasped the hands she was using to push him away and drew her up against his body.

 

The little scribe didn’t fight against the action that brought her closer to him and Jamie found himself frowning as he clearly distinguished the words leaving the man’s lips as he told her he was leaving the city late this evening and he must see her again before then. He saw the girl look up at the Tigercloak uncertainly and search his eyes before answering back that she would come to him tonight. Jamie’s anger flared ridiculously even as the other man looked elated and found the courage to kiss the girl properly before letting her go and grinning madly as he departed up the side alley they were standing in the mouth of. The scribe smiled as well and her hand ghosted to her lips after the surprising kiss, her shoulders shaking slightly with gleeful chuckles as she bid him goodbye with a wave and started off down the road in the opposite direction of where he stood.

 

Jamie didn’t know he was moving to follow her until he was already halfway across the street shouldering through the crowd, and even then he didn’t stop himself. He stretched to his full height to keep an eye on the bobbing head of mahogany curls, and just as he had reached the spot where she had been standing with her male friend she halted her progress abruptly.

 

Slowly, almost eerily, she turned around to look directly at him, her eyes completely vacant of any emotion and almost unnatural in the foreboding way in which they grazed over him.

 

Jamie’s first instinct was to try and hide upon seeing her begin to turn, but the way she had her eyes trained on him from the instant she swiveled her head made him think it would’ve been useless had he even tried. She had _known_ she was being watched, that he was following her, and he found his eyes narrowing wondering just how long she had been aware of his presence.

 

He gave her a roguish although mirthless sneer having been caught and took a step towards her intending not to let her leave without being questioned. Almost instantly she was gone.

 

Jamie stopped and stared in astonishment, mouth agape trying to figure out where in the crowd she had disappeared to while right under his gaze. He found himself feeling uneasy as he looked all around him. It was only when he looked up the alley and saw the disappearing back of the Tigercloak that he decided if he couldn’t follow her, he’d follow the fellow she was to meet up with instead. Her affection might’ve appeared genuine but the more he thought about it, nothing was as it seemed with the little scribe and he was determined to get some answers any way he could. 

                                                                                      

It was decidedly easier to follow the Tigercloak even though the man had quite a good lead on him. Jamie caught up easily considering the besotted idiot was meandering like a smitten fool, strutting through the streets as if he were a rooster with something to be extremely proud of. He followed him all the way to a familiar manse, where the fellow walked into the adjoining barracks.

 

Recognition was instantaneous for Jamie. He had been in this exact manse not even two weeks prior negotiating the contract for the Golden Company with none other than the current Volantene governing body, the Triarchs. He knew this was the personal home of Malaquo Maegyr, the tiger of the group where as the Nysessos Vhassar and Doniphos Paenymion were of the elephant political party. It made sense why the guard had said he was leaving this evening considering Jamie had been informed Maegyr was headed for Yunkai as an emissary to the Dragon Queen.

 

He had half a mind to demand audience with the man who had been instrumental in hiring his company, but the knowledge that the overly cocky warrior politician would only laugh at him for considering the little scribe a threat stopped him. Instead he opted to purchase a room at the inn across the street where he promptly opened the window and struggled to climb his way one handed onto the roof.

 

He felt half a fool as he hauled his leg over the side of the building and rolled onto his back huffing from exertion, wondering what could have possibly possessed him to think this a good idea. He couldn’t help the bitterness that rose within him at the fact that there were still some tasks that were difficult for him seeing as he only had one hand. Even though he may have overcome the odds and worked to become just as skilled of a swordsman with his left hand as he once was with his right, that didn’t mean there weren’t things beyond his capabilities. Every time he was reminded of the fact it grated his nerves. 

After a moments reprieve he pushed himself up to a sitting position against the small wall at the edge of the flat roof and took up watch for the appearance of the little scribe. He sat there for hours continually wondering why, as Catpain-General of the Golden Company, he was on this fools errand, spying on a little girl of all people. But then he was reminded of Florhin and the disappearance of the man who she had elbowed in the stomach for his unwelcome touches in the brothel the second time he’d been present at the Nameless Lover.

 

None of it sat well with him and he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something he was missing. Especially considering she had miraculously reappeared his second night after seemingly out running the man she had embarrassed and his clearly malicious intentions, only to return wearing a new shirt and with a small smattering of blood on her skirts. The stain was hardly noticeable of course, but he had been looking for it and as a soldier he could tell the difference between a wine stain and a bloodstain. He couldn’t prove it though, and he hadn’t found a body even after he’d gone looking.

 

Besides the ridiculous fact that it was a small girl he was dealing with, he was comforted by the terrified manner in which the Braavosi Madame behaved in her presence as well as the astoundingly murderous look she shot at the whore Bethany that she thought no one had spied. The way she seemed to dodge grasping hands with too much of a practiced ease, and the dangerous confidence in her stride when she wasn't acting meek had his instincts leading him to believe the girl he had observed in the market today was just that—an act. The fact that she had felt his eyes on her and then disappeared like some sort of wraith only drove the notion home.

 

Those were the reasons that kept him rooted in place until well past nightfall when he finally did spot the girl guardedly approaching the garrison entrance calling out for someone who came rushing out to sweep her off the ground and twirl her around. Jamie scowled witnessing the couple and felt sort of foolish as they disappeared inside the manse’s garrison where he couldn’t watch. He didn’t know what he’d hoped to do but he knew it hadn’t involved waiting around like an idiot.

 

Within an hour and a half movement in the courtyard of the manse started to become more pronounced as servants began to make final preparations for departure. Soon after, motion in the garrison also started to pick up as men bustled about and horses were brought out having been saddled. He watched the side entrance to the barracks open and saw two people in distinctly rumpled clothing share a chaste kiss before a recognizable girl scurried off.

 

Jamie frowned, absurdly disappointed that nothing had gone awry and believing himself a fool considering he thought the rendezvous was more suspicious than the innocent little rutt and run that it appeared to be. Still, he found himself getting to his feet and marching over to the other side of the building hoping to follow the girl with his eyes as she departed down the alley in between structures.

 

He wanted to confirm she was actually departing and not lingering, however upon looking down into the street he grimaced finding it empty. He searched the darkness with his well-trained eyes, scanning everything in sight, hoping to glance a slight frame when the cold steel he felt at his neck took him by surprise. A blow to the back of the legs felled him to his knees instantaneously.

 

“You shouldn’t have followed me Kingslayer.” Whispered a familiar voice in his ear although he certainly wouldn’t classify the tone as pleading or meek now. “Are you so eager to die?”

 

He felt something prick him in the neck and the witty retort he had prepared melted on his tongue as he felt all the muscles in his body go slack and the girl lower him to the ground so as not to make a sound. He was immobilized and cursing himself thrice over for his own stupidity.

 

She turned his face to look up at her and the cold steely grey of the Starks stared unmistakably back at him, screaming the truth where he had otherwise denied its existence. There was no doubt this was Arya Stark and his eyes flayed her in such a manner that he knew she could feel his loathing.

 

Suddenly dread overtook him as his senses began to leave him and darkness took over. Something in his eyes must have communicated that he thought he was meeting his end, because she was suddenly kneeling next to him.

 

“Your time will come soon enough Kingslayer, though the Gift is not for you presently.” She purred softly next to his ear as he scrambled in his own mind, trying to avoid the inevitable fade to blackened unconsciousness.

 

When he finally came to, he jolted upright and to his feet, looking around and trying to figure what had happened. It was still dark, and the moon was still high in the sky so he guessed he had been out only a handful of minutes.

 

That in and of itself made him wary considering the chances she was still around were high, but then he looked down in the street and his stomach plummeted and he felt the unfettered need to wretch, as if he were some untested green boy. There in the street in front of the inn, right in front of his own home, lay Malaquo Maegyr, his throat torn clean from his body. A retinue of some thirty men littered the ground around him, all dead from one wound or another.

 

There were people just beginning to encircle the carnage and it was the cry of a woman fainting that had him searching for a way to descend from the roof. He wanted to laugh at the fact that there was now a rope sitting next to the spot where he had climbed from but what stopped him was the knowledge of who must’ve left it there for him.

 

Even so he was circling it around one of the stone chimneys and checking the strength of his knot before he was looping the rope around one leg and repelling to the ground. Once there he began asking people if they had seen anything, and those that had all told similar tales.

 

A small black demon carrying a longed curved dagger appeared from down the way, stalking towards the party that had just exited the yard of the manse. The party halted and formed up around the Triarch’s horse recognizing the threat, but when the demon got close enough men just started falling from horseback like sacks of grain, not even having been touched, and the phantom moved with ungodly speed to ensure each one was never to get up again. That’s when it turned its attention on Malaquo Maegyr.

 

The old warrior supposedly charged the demon but the thing stood its ground. At the last second it moved to its knees and ran its blade along the underside of the Triarchs horse, disemboweling it and causing the politician to be thrown to the ground. Dripping in blood the black wraith moved like smoke over water to stand astride the groaning politician where it slit his throat vertically before reaching in and tearing out the man’s esophagus with its bare hands.

 

They all spoke of how the demon stood there, head thrust skyward, yellow eyes glittering, the throat of Malaquo Maegyr still in hand, as if it were reveling in its brutality, looking in reverence to the moon like some sort of rabid wolf. Then, just as quickly, the wind carried it away never to be seen again.

 

Jamie knew how to read between the lines and recognize exaggeration for what it was, but even so he found himself very apprehensive. Perhaps he shouldn’t have followed her. What she had done, if it was in fact her and he was almost certain it was, was admittedly nasty but also spoke of extreme skill if not remarkable planning. The threat to his own life suddenly became more real.

 

He headed back outside the city where the company was camped planning on tripling the guard. The whole way he had his hand ready on the hilt of his blade and his ears listening for the sound of any movement approaching him.

 

By the time the torches were only meters away he was feeling slightly relieved, that is until he was spotted and men came running.

 

“Captain-General!” A young looking boy with no rings present on his fingers, representative of not even a year of service with the Company, stepped towards him. “We’ve news from the city. Nyessos Vhassar was found dead not an hour past. He was strung up in his chambers, hung like a goat from his own bed with his throat cut open.” Jamie frowned and tried to step past but the lad wouldn’t let him. “There’s more Captain, Doniphos Paenymion passed as well. They said he choked while taking his dinner, though his slaves suspect someone poisoned him. Others of his household were dining with him but the dragonfruit he is known to be fond of was for him alone.”

 

Jamie paused at the mention dragonfruit and dread settled within his stomach. The little scribe was even more than he had just come to terms with it appeared. There was no doubt that all three were connected, all three Triarchs dead within hours of each other. He almost could’ve admired the skill it must’ve taken to orchestrate such a feat had the promise of his time nearing as well not echoed through his head.

 

“Find the lieutenants and have them triple the guard. Have anyone who’s not one of our own sent from camp immediately. All the Triarchs are dead. We don’t know what this means for our contract.” He whispered the last part after the young fellow as he scurried off to do as ordered.

 

Jamie wasted no time in heading to the center of camp where his tents were and was relieved to see guards taking up post and still more keeping watch over the entrance to his living quarters. He nodded to the men outside and gave them instruction not to let anyone pass unless they were messengers from the city. Should officers wish to have words with him they were to assure them that the company wasn’t going to be leaving unless specifically asked to do so and even then not without the gold they were promised. The last thing he needed right now was for his men to get it in their heads that their contract had been broken and the city meant to treat with envoys from Qohor and Norvos to avoid the war that paid their wages. Then his men would force him to sack the city to recompense what gold had been promised to them.

 

He walked through the thick oiled canvas flaps of his tent and headed straight to the desk at the far side of the space stationed at the foot of his bed. He didn’t hesitate to uncork the bottle of pear brandy he had left there the night before and pour himself a large glass. It wasn't until he turned around and found the chair that he had been positive was empty moments before now occupied by a small girl that he realized he wasn't alone.

 

He had to stay his hand from reaching for the hilt of his sword as unease rose within him at the shock of finding her there. He figured she could’ve easily killed him already had she wanted to, so instead he raised his glass to her, lips curling upwards in a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes as he greeted her, forcing calm by leaning back against the desk in an explicitly easy manner. “What a pleasure.” He drawled, falsely pleasant. “I can’t say I was expecting you so soon, but now that you’ve seen yourself in, courtesy dictates I see you welcomed.” He bowed mockingly. “Arya was it? Of House Stark?” He stated his voice now biting, his eyes burning.

 

She flourished the knife she had been polishing, no doubt cleaning off the blood she’d recently spilled, and then sheathed the blade. “Arya Stark is dead.” She stated eyes drifting to his stoically.

 

Jamie laughed derisively. “Could’ve fooled me.” He took a sip of his brandy. “If the girl in front of me isn’t Arya Stark, pray tell, who is she?” He said with feigned interest.

 

“No One.” She answered him simply.

 

He half smiled and shook his head. “No, I don’t believe you’re no one.” He began as if considering her carefully. “You certainly look like _someone_.”

 

She shrugged his question off as if it were of no consequence. “I have looked like many someone’s.” She responded, a small knowing smile tugging at her lips. “I simply chose to wear the face of a girl that once was. A girl who once would’ve had you look upon her face as you were delivered the Gift.”

 

Jamie worked hard to steel his face although he couldn’t help the shock that flashed through his eyes upon realization of exactly what she was implying. He was familiar with the stories. She must have noticed his recognition because her grin turned positively lupine.

 

“A Faceless man.” He stated intrepidly. Eyes helplessly twinkling and intrigued even as the words sounded like a death sentence to his own ears.

 

She cocked her head to the side as her only answer. The vacant look in her eyes as she considered him standing there, relaxing as if he weren’t as disturbed as he was given the situation he found himself in, was highly unsettling. He refused to show his dread.

 

Instead he turned to refill his drink. “Would you like one?” He offered her but she only narrowed her eyes suspiciously, though there was nothing behind the fathomless silver. “Of course not, my mistake. What use could No One have of drink?” He stated mockingly as he pulled out a chair and made a show of lazily settling into it. “I must say I’m flattered that someone valued my head enough to pay such an obscene amount to see it roll.” He drawled disinterestedly.

 

“You think too much of yourself. No one paid for your life Kingslayer.” She told him her gaze hardening.

 

Jamie was almost happy to see there was some emotion there; she truly didn’t like him and that was very telling. He wondered if he could get her to show more. “And by No One, you mean _you_ of course. _Arya_ _Stark_.” He sipped his wine impishly, peeking at her over the rim all the while.

 

She scowled at him. “Arya Stark is dead.” She spat. Strangely, it didn’t sound like the statement was directed wholly at him. “And I do not pay to take life. I serve those I find deserving with the Gift of my own accord.” She told him.

 

Jamie pursed his lips and feigned thoughtfulness. “A Faceless man delivering the gift wherever she sees fit?” He asked curiously. “I’ve never heard of one of your kind having their own agenda. It’s quite frightening really. What _will_ the guild say?” He jibed and was happy to notice her tense even if it was minutely. “Tell me, how was it that you came to desire my head?” He posed the question leaning forward on his elbows looking introspective. “For the life of me all I can recall from the stories is that the Faceless don’t have emotions or identities. How can No One, as you call yourself, wish to take the head of a man if you are, as they say, no one?” He inquired knowing he had her in a philosophical conundrum. “Such a person wouldn’t have ties to anyone, or a want for blood, unless of course they _are_ in fact someone.” He finished looking her dead in the eye for any type of reaction

 

The girl scowled and he grinned.

 

“I spent some time in Braavos.” He told her sitting back in his seat relaxed. “I’m curious to know how a girl managed to hold onto such hate when it identifies her for who she truly is. Faceless men are to remain nameless and yet here you are, _Arya_ _Stark_.”

 

“Arya Stark is dead.” She said through gritted teeth. Her eyes flashed angrily and with something else, it almost looked like concern.

 

He continued, curious as to why she kept repeating herself. “You must’ve hidden yourself away quite well once.” He goaded, not really knowing how dangerously close to the truth he was. “With me though, not so much. I wonder what your masters would have to say about this particular turn of events.”

 

She blinked, holding her eyes shut for just a moment too long, looking to be gathering strength.

 

It was a strange reaction but a reaction nonetheless. He continued, a malicious thought coming to mind as his eyes lit up in malevolent hope. “Better yet, what would your _dear_ _family_ have to say about this new life you’ve made for yourself?”

 

She went rigid and repeated the words that seemed to be her mantra. “Arya Stark is dead. I belong only to the Guild.” It came out noticeably monotonous, though still with such vehemence. She looked to be battling something internally and he wanted her to lose. Her eyes kept flickering open and closed, and when they were open she was searching the ground as if looking for something to hold onto.

 

He was close to something he could tell. He tilted his head to the side, eyes boring into her, understanding the cruelty of his next statement but resolved to use it as a means to break through the cold exterior that he had already begun chipping away. He would get her to admit who she was, if not by words than by anger.

 

“What would the honorable Ned Stark say if he could see his innocent young daughter had become a ghost?” He questioned. “Would he find comfort in the knowledge that he gave his head, besmirching his precious honor for the title of traitor, so that his beloved little wolf could do the bidding of cravens too scared to deliver their own wrath?” Her reaction was visible and he knew he was about to get what he wanted, though what exactly that entailed he had no clue. He couldn’t stop now. “What would your father have to say about a demon that kills from the shadows and takes life without a care to whom it belongs? Do you think he would be pleased to have birthed an indiscriminate murderer? A Stark without honor?”

 

He visibly watched as she crumbled right before him.

 

He found himself quickly getting to his feet and taking a cautious step away from her, startled and bewildered as she stumbled backward clutching her head and her stomach, looking both dizzy and revolted, fighting some internal battle brought on by his words. He had to blink away confusion at seeing such a corporeal reaction though. He was still wary that it might be some sort of trick.

 

Suddenly she was falling to the ground onto her knees, her expression as she met his eyes more terrified than any he could ever remember seeing. Jamie’s blood curdled when she looked up into nothingness, her eyes gone white and flickering rapidly.

 

When blood began to run freely from her nose, pouring onto the carpet, Jamie didn’t think twice about letting his instincts take over. What he had just been the cause of he clearly didn’t have the means to grasp and yet he felt inexplicably uneasy and almost remorseful. Almost.  

 

He gathered her in his arms just as she had been about to collapse to the ground. Once there though he stared down at the unconscious girl wondering what in the seven hells he planned to do with her. What does one do with a captive Faceless man?

 

The only thing he could think to do was tie her up. 

 

***

 

Arya Stark woke suddenly gulping in air as if she’d just broke the surface of water having been held under as someone tried to drown her. She looked around wildly wondering where she was. She was helpless as a feeling of overwhelming grief engulfed her, grief from long ago that she hadn’t yet found the strength to deal with, grief that she hadn’t _wanted_ to deal with and had buried along with the girl from Winterfell.

 

She had worked so hard to kill Arya Stark and now she had returned with a vengeance, beckoned cruelly back to life by a man who didn’t understand or care the consequence or the cost to her being.

 

Arya Stark was a tidal wave of epic proportions demolishing all the carefully hidden compartments of her mind where she trapped the emotions and the pain involved with being the child she once was. She was helpless to re-experience the torturous life of a girl child as everything else was subjugated, even her cold faceless will.

 

She was mortified as she found herself powerless to halt the sobs that came pouring from her lungs, her body wracked and trembling fiercely. Having not spilled a tear going on seven years it felt foreign and wrong, but then again so did the feelings of the girl of one and ten who she had hoped she had forgotten, who she had prayed would mercifully perish.

 

She was terrified, and vulnerable, and lost, all feelings she had hoped to never experience again overwhelming. The pain only became more acute as memories flooded vividly to the forefront of her mind one by one. She was reliving the nightmare she had tried to suppress.

 

She was in the North, looking on her brother feeling outraged and helpless. Bran looked to be peacefully asleep, her mother a wreck beside him and wailing inconsolably. She lifted the furs that covered his legs only to find a purple mangled mess in place of the strong limbs he used to climb the towers around Winterfell.

 

She was only nine and clutching at the cloak of her brother Jon, sobbing and begging him not to leave her, not to join the Nights Watch. His face crumbled and tears were streaming down his own face looking torn, but still he turned his back and left her, the first of many to desert her.

 

She was ten and throwing rocks at Nymeria, chasing part of herself away and watching as a piece of her disappeared into the forest.

 

She stood off to the side as the Hound rode into a camp near the Neck. A boy gutted and slung over the haunches of his horse, like a deer he’d hunted down for sport.

 

She smelled the leather of Jory Cassels jerkin as she heard her sister’s cries and the sound of her Father’s great sword Ice as it looped off a gentle wolf’s head.

 

She was water dancing in the Red Keep with the First Sword of Braavos looking on intently when men in white and gold armor barged in and Syrio Forel told her to run, choosing to face down her would be assailants with not but a wooden practice blade and giving his life for her own.

 

She was dirty, distraught, and hungry, following a crowd into a square full of people demanding the head of the person on the stand. Her father. She was pulled into arms fighting fiercely as she heard her sister’s cries and the sound of a head rolling across the ground.

 

She was a boy named Arry, hiding behind a wall as men approached, surrounding a man in black before they took his life for trying to protect the identity of a boy with a bulls helm and a small girl with a dangerous name.

 

She was at Harrenhall, the cries of the women being raped only drowned out by those who had a bucket strapped to their middle, a rat trapped inside burrowing away from the heat of a flame and into their bloodied bodies as they cried for mercy and received none.

 

She was in the forest, begging the savior with a half head of red hair and half white to stay and protect her pack when he was only willing to leave her with a coin and some foreign words.

 

She was on her knees clutching the front of a man who was once her father’s bannerman as he told her that her home had fallen, that Winterfell had fallen. A boy who was once like a brother claiming it as his own and the life of her two youngest siblings along with it.

 

She was in a yellow dress, devastated as her pack told her they weren’t coming with her, the bull wanting to be a knight, and the round one deserting her for a hot oven. She was only worth the money that her name could provide the men they were leaving her for. 

 

She was outside a castle spanning a river, a hideous melody in her ear as she watched in horror her brother’s men being slaughtered. A corpse with a wolf’s head being paraded around alongside that of a woman’s who was actively being defiled.  

                                                                                                                                

She was stabbing the dead man in front of her over and over again, the man with the burnt face behind her stumbling outside to collapse against a tree where she left him to die, callously ignoring his pleas to finish him off.

 

She was offering a man with a strange accent an iron coin and watching in the distance as she said good-bye to Westeros, giving up hope to ever return, giving up hope of home, of Winterfell and the North.

 

She was accepting a goblet from a man with a kindly face and then waking up to nothing but sweet darkness…

 

…A darkness that was now deserting her for something profoundly more devastating...life

 

The sound of her sobs told her of her journey back to a horrid reality; a horrid reality with an even more shattering past. She felt her body curling in on herself even though something was restraining her hands above her head. 

 

The senses she had so carefully tuned over the years failed her as they were drowned out by the terrible emotions flooding through her body and burning their way through her mind and destroying her heart. There was a hand under her chin and someone in front of her she hadn’t known was there.

 

Arya Stark opened her tear filled eyes and met the emerald-gold gaze of a Lannister before looking away quickly. “What’ve you done?” She whispered to no one in particular, the hate she felt for the man forgotten in the wake of the vortex of unwelcomed feeling that was her mind, threatening to unhinge her.

The voice that spoke back to her was full of nothing but troubled curiosity as he forced her to meet his eyes. “Who are you?” He asked genuinely inquisitive.

 

She laughed bitterly at first but found she couldn’t stop. It was a maniacal sound, a sound that chilled her to the bone and it wasn’t until her abdomen began to cramp that she was able to stop. Catching her breath it was all she could do not to drown in bitterness as she considered his question and found an unwelcome answer.

 

“I am Arya Stark.” She finally choked out looking up at the unsettled man in front of her as she flayed him with her hate. “A girl who I long thought died, a girl I had mercifully forgotten and so had the world.”

 

She yanked her chin defiantly from his grasp and curled in on herself fully intent on finding the darkness that brought with it the suppression of her conscience and humanity. She sought out the tranquility of her facelessness, and afraid that she might not be successful she prepared to let herself well and truly die.

 

***

 

Jamie had absolutely no idea what he had done to make the girl crumble into such a pitiful state and so quickly. He was almost beginning to believe her sentiments that killing her would’ve been a better fate than whatever in the Seven Hells he’d done to cause such a drastic transformation.

 

One minute she’s brutally and skillfully murdering three politicians within hours of one another and subsequently intent on having his head, and the next she’s gotten herself tied her up and he’s listening to the most agonizing cries of grief he’s ever heard and for reasons he’s sure he doesn’t want to understand even if he is curious. He had never been one to be affect by the pain of others, being a disenchanted Lannister saw to that, but somehow there was something poignantly lamentable about witnessing the death of the Faceless girl and the return of Arya Stark.

 

He found himself oddly sympathetic to the plight of the girl who had come for his life. He could understand the desire to be dead. He had often struggled with his own dark thoughts after the loss of his hand followed by that of his sister’s love and then his brother’s. Death was too easy though, and he’d managed to find his own coping mechanisms. The guilt he felt at taking away Arya Stark’s only method was more profound than he would’ve liked to admit. His unwelcome response was felt more acutely knowing that her demons were that of a child’s, his were that of a man grown, a man with a better understanding of a cruel world having had time to come to terms with it.   

 

He thought it was only for these reasons that he hadn’t succumbed to her pleas to end her life. He felt culpable for her current state of mind, and after all that his family had done he wasn't willing to end the line of House Stark. Gods knows the smell of her alone after seven days should’ve been enough to grant her that mercy and overcome his qualms, especially because he kept her in his tent less his men decide to spoil her, but it wasn’t. He just couldn’t do it, and he wasn't willing to let her do it herself either, though she made it clear she would try.

 

The stubborn wolf hadn’t taken food in days and he was beyond furious with her for that. To remedy the problem he was currently forcing a funnel down her throat as she struggled feebly in her weakened state to prevent him from force-feeding her wine and a broth made thick with crushed lentils. She was sputtering and glaring at him furiously, but what was really troubling was the fact that her heart wasn't behind the glare. In her grey gaze was nothing but despondence and a will to die.

 

He was all too happy to leave his tent and the pitiful girl in the care of the women he had hired from the city to come see her cleaned of her own filth. Hopefully that would work to get rid of the smell of piss and shit that reminded him too poignantly of his own captivity. She certainly needed a bath, and he figured she might be more amenable to conversation once she was more comfortable. As of yet she was a mute when awake unless to sob woefully or ask for him to kill her, and while asleep she screamed from night terrors and what he could only assume were the memories she had suppressed for so long.

 

He returned to his tent hopeful that she’d worked through some of her grief in a weeks time and that she might yet still have the will to live buried somewhere deep inside her, that mayhaps it could be coaxed out. What he found however made his stomach drop and had him calling for the company’s surgeons immediately.  

 

The fool women from the city had must’ve though it a mercy to only chain her to the pole in the center of the space by one hand and she had been able to stretch and reach his writing desk to make use of his letter opener. Blood was pouring from a large diagonal cut along the pale skin of the wrist that was secured above her head and her skin had a deathly pallor.

 

He was yelling for help and then on his knees in front of her, removing his belt to tie around her arm like a tourniquet and then using his fingers to search out the artery she had sliced and pinch it closed delicately.  “Fool girl.” He whispered worriedly. “What’ve you done?” He asked quietly, slightly panic stricken.

 

Up until she smiled weakly he hadn’t even know she was still conscious. Her words tore at his soul. “No one can come back from the dead. The Gift is a mercy.” She told him weakly.

 

He didn’t have time to really do anything but stare in agony and watch her grey gaze fade as men came bustling into the space and set about stitching her up. It wasn't until hours later that he found out just how close she had come to killing herself.

 

The surgeons said that if she hadn’t cut through the ligament and her hand hadn’t been held above her head by the chains she most surely would’ve died. If not from blood loss, which was stemmed quite a bit as it was being pumped against gravity, than certainly from a successful attempt at slicing her other arm. As it was she couldn’t hold the knife in her hand to open her other vein due to the sliced tendon, though it was apparent she had still tried. Blessedly the dulled letter opener was rather useless unless there was significant force put behind it, a force she couldn’t manage with her tendon sliced through.

 

She was given milk of the poppy and a foreign concoction he wished he had known about years ago that was supposed to permit dreamless sleep. When she finally woke three days later croaking for water he had hope that maybe she had found the will to live. He had her moved to his bed and tied there, though he was sure she wouldn’t be going anywhere in her weakened state. The servants he’d hired to look after her came to him immediately once her eyes fluttered open and he dismissed them taking the bowl of broth and insisting he’d feed her himself.

 

“Eat.” He instructed her bringing the spoon to her mouth. She still managed to look a bit defiant while simultaneously appearing defeated. It would’ve been almost laughable if it weren’t wholly aggravating. He narrowed his eyes at her. “Eat or I’ll fetch the funnel and force feed you again.”

 

She glared but blessedly let the broth slide down her throat without contest, though she sputtered a bit most likely from not having received any sustenance for three days. The coughs wracked her whole body and she winced in pain as it caused muscles she’d rather not feel to flex gruesomely. Jamie set the bowl down and loosened some of her bindings before looping his arms around her waist to effortlessly sit her up, propping her against the wood headboard she was tied to in hopes that she could find a more comfortable position and minimize her discomfort.

 

When he finally brought the spoon back to her lips she was considering him with furrowed brows and a suspicious gaze.

 

“Why are you keeping me alive?” She asked between spoonfuls.

 

Jamie snorted, in all honestly he wasn't really sure other than the fact that he couldn’t bear the thought of her dead, especially because of any action he may have taken. He didn’t tell her that though. “Because I enjoy having my tent smell of piss and shit.” He told her sarcastically bringing the spoon to her mouth. She wouldn’t take it.

 

“Answer me.” She demanded.

 

Jamie glared at her angrily and seriously considered fetching the funnel. The fact that she thought she was in any position to be ordering him around was incredibly absurd. He plopped the spoon back in the bowl and set it down roughly. “I will answer you if you tell me why you decided to stain my letter opener with your blood.”

 

She didn’t hesitate at all she was so in need of understanding. She just looked at him levelly and came out with it as if she were telling some boring tale. “I was a Faceless man.” She stated stoically. “We are trained to forget who we once were, to kill our identities so we can take and shed new ones as easily as any other would don clothes.” She explained before pausing momentarily, looking away to find the words to make him understand. “When Arya Stark traveled to Braavos using the coin gifted to her by another of the guild, she was running from her life so she could find a means to seek sanctuary and revenge. I was afraid, afraid to even live because of what had been done to my family and too afraid and too weak to claim the revenge I so desired or welcome death. I became a servant of the house of Black and White, welcoming the idea of being Faceless at first because I wished to gain the skills required to execute my retribution, and then eventually so I could learn to forget who I once was altogether. Everyone across the Narrow Sea who I’d wished to die by my hand perished at the hands of another. I thought taking my final rites given what little I knew of the transformation would work to suppress Arya Stark for good. I was wrong.  Only with death will she be forgotten and being victim to her memory is far worse that living.” She finished so simply. 

 

Jamie wasn’t sure at first if she had finished and scoffed audibly at what he considered too casual and too pathetic of a rational when he realized she had. He couldn't help but laugh derisively. “Such a Northern mentality you possess!” He chastised sarcastically. “What is it you say? ‘The North Remembers’?” He questioned mockingly. “Isn't it so ironic that you can all apparently remember, but only what you wish to forget!“ He snorted unable to keep the contempt from his voice as he shook his head and continued without giving her a chance to speak. “No doubt you _are_ the child of Eddard Stark! No capacity to find or offer any solution, or come to terms with decisions that led you there. You’ve resigned yourself to death as a result of your own actions, actions probably believed to have been forced upon you when its only the result of choosing to run!” He lectured disdainfully. “It seems history is doomed to repeat itself. You’re now reconciled with your own demise just as and your father had to have been when warning my sister before attempting to dethrone Jofferey. It is your choices that are haunting you just as letting Robert Baratheon sit on the Iron throne did your'e father, and just like your father you're too much of a coward to stand up and face it and do what must be done!” He added feeling his anger rise but quelling it as he finished. “Life is hard and ruled by choice, its weight bearing down can be heavier than a mountian. Death on the other hand, death is for the weak, death is light than a feather!”

 

Arya been frowning, but as he finished her face twisted as her rage swelled feeling the depth of his ignorance. Lashing out she kicked the goblet of wine he’d picked up after setting the bowl down and sat threateningly forward as far as she could, heedless of the pain caused by ropes on her stitches “Not for one second did I have a _choice_ of the path I led in Westeros.” She spat at him. “Or are you naïve enough to believe Westerosi women are afforded a say at all considering the age I was?” She seethed as Jamie sat there taken aback and surprised at the strength she managed to muster up. “You may have thought you had little choice as a Lordling and salve to duty, but my life has been out of my own hands since I was a girl and when I finally was making decisions for myself, what good did it do me?” She paused as her eyes began to gloss over and her voice became hoarse. “I escaped the Red Keep and was in the square to hear the sound of my father’s greatsword remove his own head. I could do nothing to stop it. I escaped King’s Landing posing as a boy and traveled with a Black Brother when the Gold Cloaks killed most of our party looking for a young smith with us who was King Robert’s bastard. I could do nothing to stop it. I was taken to Harrenhall and only just escaped the eighth circle of hell to find the seventh as a refugee of the Riverlands and hostage of the Brotherhood without Banners where all my friends would desert me. I could do nothing to stop it. I was at the Twins, within reach of being reunited with what was left of my family when the Rains of Castemere rang out over the banks of the Green Fork and they began parading the lifeless bodies of my mother and brother around like the heathens they were. I could do _nothing_ to stop it.” Her eyes flashed suddenly in anger and pain and her voice was tense. “I _wasn’t_ there when Theon burned Bran and Rickon alive. I _wasn't_ there when Lord Commander Jon Snow was stabbed half a hundred times by his Black Brothers in arms and slain by mutiny. I _wasn't_ there when Sansa disappeared from the face of the earth after Joffery’s death. Only whispers to speak of how _your_ _sister_ the Queen Regent had her raped to death when really she sought out the Stranger herself and it was Littlefinger who drove her to it. I _wasn't_ _there_ and even it I was, what choice did I have? Choice is illusion. I could do _nothing_ to stop _any_ of it. It didn’t matter where Arya Stark was, she was powerless to stop _anything_.” She paused momentarily to let it all sink into her own fragile mind for the thousandth time, attempting to hold back tears. “Arya Stark is a _helpless_ _little_ _girl_ who has no one left in this world, and what revenge No One sought for her and her wolf by slaughtering those who did her wrong, and hundreds more who didn’t, brought her no comfort, only more wretchedness. Arya Stark is an honorless grieving child slayer because she couldn’t even prevent those she loved from meeting their gruesome ends and she’d rather die than live knowing there wasn't _anything_ she could do to prevent it.” Her glare hardened as she looked to Jamie. “Now, _why_ is it _you_ are keeping her alive?”

 

He wasn't sure how to respond at first. He wasn’t expecting her to be so forthcoming and he certainly wasn't expecting to be so affected by such an outburst. His stomach was in knots and he had a giant lump in his throat. As a girl of one and ten she had seen more horrors than anyone deserved to and he was sure there was more she hadn’t divulged. He felt new hatred for his own family roil up from somewhere he didn't think existed, and suddenly he found words. “I am keeping you alive because there _is_ something I can do to prevent your death. I _have_ a choice.”

 

They stared at each other for a long moment carefully considering one another before Jamie picked up the bowl of broth and brought the spoon back to her lips.

 

The gentle knot in her delicate throat bobbed as she grimaced unhappily. Still she begrudgingly obliged and gave him no more trouble with the task of being fed.


End file.
